


i would know him in death, at the end of the world

by andrewminyards



Series: we are all the pieces of what we remember [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Bard Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Human Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Reincarnation of a sort, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Role Reversal, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, geralt has red hair and green eyes and freckles and he blushes, temporary memory loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26109007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrewminyards/pseuds/andrewminyards
Summary: This is where he’d first met Jaskier, in this dark tavern in Posada. As Geralt plays his lute and sings, his heart aches at the memory of Jaskier, a painful reminder of who he’d lost.His eyes wander through the tavern until they settle on a dark figure in the corner, sitting at the table where Geralt had once sat, a lifetime ago, and Geralt’s voice dies in his throat.A witcher.He makes his way over, hope blooming in his heart as he leans against a pillar and blurts out the words etched deep into his memory, words that had been Jaskier’s, once upon a time.“I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood.”Or: Geralt is reborn into a world where he’s a human bard, and when he finally regains his past memories, he thinks that Jaskier is dead - until he sees a witcher in Posada.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: we are all the pieces of what we remember [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1895686
Comments: 122
Kudos: 465





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yes hello i come bearing yet another wip, i know i have so many to work on already, but i needed to post this in preparation for a [collaboration project](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1895545) i’m working on
> 
> it’s based on [this post](https://jaskicr.tumblr.com/post/624098611545964544/reverse-au-but-canon-universe-geralt-and-jaskier) that i made a while ago! this has been in the works for over a month now, and i’m really excited for this since i love this concept, i hope you all enjoy it<3

“Stay behind me, Jaskier,” Geralt growls as he steps into the seemingly abandoned shack. Everything is covered in a layer of dust, and the air smells musty, but Geralt’s medallion threatens to vibrate off his chest. Despite how innocuous and abandoned this shack appears, there’s strong magic at work, the acrid scent of chaos cutting through the deadened air.

Geralt takes tentative steps further into the shack, sword poised to face whatever threat might come at them, but there’s nothing. Nothing but the beating of his own heart and Jaskier’s, nothing but the sound of their quiet breathing, nothing but Geralt’s near-silent footsteps. Nothing lurks in the shadows, and it’s only his medallion and the hum of chaos in the air that keeps Geralt on his guard.

“Geralt, what -” Jaskier tries, and Geralt sends him a warning look, but Jaskier continues, undeterred. “Everything seems fine, why are you -”

“There’s magic,” Geralt grunts. He can’t figure out _why_ , and it’s annoying him to no end. 

“We can just leave,” Jaskier points out hesitantly as he edges behind Geralt. “We don’t have to investigate.”

“There’s a village nearby.” Geralt would _like_ to take Jaskier and leave this mysterious shack far, far behind them, leave behind what might be the strongest source of magic that Geralt has ever felt. He doesn’t want to risk Jaskier, who’s vulnerable and human, but there’s a village not too far from here, and Geralt refuses to take the chance that this magic may come to harm them. “We can’t risk it.”

Jaskier stays silent as Geralt tries to pinpoint where the chaos is coming from. The shack is small, cluttered with various items, none of which seem out of place, but -

There’s a mirror lying atop a pile of scraps, gleaming and polished, untouched by the dust that surrounds it. Casting a cursory glance around the shack, Geralt steps towards the mirror, Jaskier following behind him.

“Oh, wow,” Jaskier breathes, eyes wide as he stares at the mirror. The mirror is beautiful, without a single fleck of dirt on it, ornately decorated with precious gems, and it’s _overflowing_ with chaos, so strong that Geralt almost chokes on it, so strong that his medallion vibrates like it never has before.

And Jaskier is reaching for it, transfixed by its beauty, and Geralt notices too late.

“Jaskier, no -” Geralt makes to slap Jaskier’s hands away, but Jaskier has already touched the mirror, and they’re touching it at the same time -

There’s an explosion of light, and they’re sucked into darkness.

* * *

Geralt is born in Lettenhove as the son of the viscount. He’s raised in the laps of nobility, with lavish luxuries and servants pandering to his every need. His father is desperate to mould him into the perfect noble son, and from a young age, Geralt is swamped with lessons in etiquette and politics and combat.

He’s unnervingly good at combat. Picking up a blade is as natural to him as breathing, and to his instructors’ astonishment, he picks up techniques and maneuvers at a shocking speed, far faster and more skilled than his peers. 

There’s something about fighting that calls to Geralt, and he enjoys the thrill of swinging his sword through the air, the metallic clash against another blade, the way his brain focuses wholly on the opponent before him. He has _dreams_ , dreams that one day, he’ll be able to grow up big and strong and be able to use his skills to protect people, fighting off monsters and creatures that plague them, and it feels _right_.

His father is proud of him for it, praising him for being good at combat where he struggles to focus on his other lessons, but Geralt wants something _more_. He wonders what it is. He has everything he could ever want, money and luxury and comfort, but whenever his sword sings through the air, whenever he gets to step outside the stifling walls of a palace, whenever he hears the hum of music, Geralt yearns for something more, something that he can’t reach.

He tries everything, sinking into the indulgences that his father’s riches provide him with, trying to fill the hole within himself with his wealth, but nothing works, and he goes through his days with something hollow, something missing, until the first time his father lets him attend an event at court.

The event is dull, and Geralt is bored out of his mind. The adults around him talk with veiled words and hidden meanings, and it tires him to decipher what they’re saying, so he drowns them out, scanning over the rest of the room, and then he catches sight of a bard prancing around the grand hall, singing with a lute in his hands.

The bard’s smooth baritone drifts over to Geralt, and he sits up straighter, ears straining. He’s heard of bards, of course, having read about them at some point, but this is the first time he’s seen one, and something draws Geralt’s attention to him. 

The music is good, and the bard’s voice is pleasant, but there’s something wrong. Something is off, and Geralt struggles to figure out what it is, wondering why the bard’s voice grates on his ears. The bard is perfectly in tune - how does Geralt even know that? - and he plays his lute with skill and precision, and his song is entertaining, but Geralt - he doesn’t like it, something about the bard is _wrong_ , it’s simply not right

He dismisses it as an irrational dislike, nothing more, but in the days following the event, Geralt’s mind is filled with song and music, conjuring images of graceful fingers plucking away at a lute, a rich tenor filling his ears, and he finds himself walking past the music room more and more often, listening to the songs played by the musicians there.

Impulsively, he asks his father if he can start taking music lessons. His father is surprised, but allows it as long as it doesn’t interfere with his other lessons.

Music is frustratingly hard. Geralt’s fingers are clumsy and unwieldy, fumbling over notes and chords even as his teacher coaches him through it patiently. He’s good with pitch, able to play out a melody from memory alone, but he doesn’t have the skill to actually play it, leaving him frustrated at his inability to play any instrument. Scales are tedious and boring, his fingers lacking the dexterity to play them with ease, and Geralt knows that he simply isn’t that good at music, knows that he lacks any innate talent, even as his teacher tries to tell him otherwise.

Geralt has always been an impatient person. If he’s not good at something, he won’t waste time on it, preferring to devote his attention to other activities. His parents expect him to give up on music, expect it to be nothing more than a quick phase, expect him to use his time on activities more befitting of the son of a noble, and maybe he _should_ , but he doesn’t want to - every time he considers it, his brain rejects that possibility with surprising vehemence. 

He thinks of the bard, thinks of his lovely voice and his skill with the lute, and Geralt wants to persist, wants to be _good_. Music calls to him like nothing else has, and even as he fumbles his way through instruments, it feels _right_.

So he dedicates himself to learning one instrument, the lute, and to honing his voice. The lute is hard to learn, and Geralt needs to learn where to press his fingers to produce the right note, how to pluck the strings to produce a pleasant sound, how to angle his fingers to produce a harmonious chord, how to move his fingers quickly enough to play a song - it’s not easy, and his teacher tries to convince him to play an easier instrument, but Geralt stubbornly clings to the lute, determined to get good at it, determined to be _perfect._

The lute is the right instrument. It’s the _perfect_ instrument, and it feels as right in his hands as a sword does - maybe even better, because fighting is bloody and violent, whereas the lute creates music, creates something beautiful and lovely, and it fills Geralt with warmth. Even if he has no talent for it, he’ll practise and practise and practise until he’s good at it, until he masters it completely. 

And he improves, his fingers developing calluses and dexterity that allow him to play the most wondrous songs. His voice develops nicely, a smooth bass that compliments the notes of his lute, and he’s _good_ at it, good at singing and playing his lute, and the halls of his house are often filled with music, his voice echoing through the lavish halls, accompanied by the soft plucking of a lute. 

It’s wonderful, and Geralt _loves_ the lute, loves his music - he’s good, but he wants to be better. He hears of Oxenfurt, and he _burns_ to go there and hone his skill. His parents disapprove, thinking music too frivolous and useless a subject for a noble like him, and Geralt argues with them daily until he can’t stand it anymore, taking his lute and some of his belongings and sneaking to Oxenfurt.

The road isn’t easy. He’s young and vulnerable, not even an adult, and he’s an easy target for bandits. He was raised in a noble household with no need to fend for himself, with no survival skills to speak of, with his only useful skill being how to wield a sword, but he manages surprisingly well, his hands automatically making a fire even though he’s never learnt to do so, easily fending off bandits with the sword he’d stolen from the armoury.

Eventually, Geralt reaches Oxenfurt, a grand city bustling with life and colour, and it calls to him, its brightness and warmth filling the emptiness within him the same way that music had done. 

He loves it already. 

Geralt enrolls and becomes a student, quickly becoming enthralled with the campus and the people, falling further and further in love with his craft as he hones his musical skills to perfection under the tutelage of the best musicians on the Continent.

There’s an inexplicable urge within him that drives him to be the _best_ , and he strives to be at the top of his craft, but some pompous upstart named Valdo Marx starts sabotaging his attempts, and Geralt _hates_ him. Valdo’s songs are blatantly copied off Geralt’s, the style and the flow and the melodies all clearly stolen from him, and gods, Geralt wants nothing more than to smash Valdo’s head in with his own lute and hear the satisfying crack of it against his skull.

Unfortunately, he can’t do that, but Geralt is better than Valdo anyway, and he works far harder than that arrogant prick. Valdo can die of apoplexy for all he cares.

He doesn’t know what apoplexy is, and he wonders why he came up with that. But well, it sounds painful, and Valdo deserves a slow, painful death.

A year after arriving at Oxenfurt, Geralt wakes up to a flood of memories, decades and decades filling his mind, and he collapses on the floor of his room, clutching at his head. 

He remembers Kaer Morhen, his home from a young age, brutal and relentless training day after day. He shudders as the memory of the Trials return to his mind, the unending pain and blazing agony as his body mutates and his eyes turn gold. The years on the Path, the hatred and wariness of humans as they spit on him and grind his face in the dirt. Blaviken, Renfri’s large eyes boring into his, Stregobor’s magic tainting the air, and after, the intensifying vitriol that gets hurled at him. 

Then Posada, a bard who sees past the Butcher, the only person who looks at him and _sees_ him. Years and decades of travelling together, of gentle hands roaming his body and tangling in his hair, years of song and joy and laughter, time pulling them apart but always bringing them back together. He remembers soft kisses and tender touches, strong arms wrapping around him in a warm embrace. A promise, a vow to love each other for the rest of their lives as waves lap at their ankles, a kiss sealing their devotion. 

An abandoned shack, a gleaming mirror, an explosion - and gods, what had happened? 

Geralt had been a witcher once, roaming the Continent and killing monsters, but he’s human now. He wracks his brain for an explanation, but he can’t come up with any for how he ended up _here_ , living a human life without his memories, and only now remembering his life as a witcher.

Geralt stumbles to the mirror. The face that stares back is familiar, a face he’d grown up seeing for sixteen years, but it’s so utterly strange. The face that stares back is human, with curly red hair and green eyes instead of white hair and yellow eyes, with freckles decorating his face instead of scars, with a lean, unmarked body from a noble upbringing rather than a bulky figure from years of brutal training, scarred by monsters and creatures and beasts.

The part of him that had endured decades on the Path balks from his reflection, from the unfamiliarity of it. But this is the face he’s known for the past sixteen years, a face that’s human, but _his_ all the same.

Is this what the mirror had done? Is this the life he would’ve led had he been human? 

And Jaskier, what happened to Jaskier?

Jaskier had been with him, Geralt remembers numbly. He’d touched the mirror, so he should be here with Geralt, in this strange world where Geralt isn’t a witcher. Geralt realises with a start that, at this period of time, Jaskier should be at Oxenfurt as well, making his way through his degree, and his heart soars.

Perhaps he can find Jaskier here. They can figure out what happened.

He scours the campus, looking for familiar brown hair and blue eyes, following the sounds of lute playing and singing, but he can’t find Jaskier. He asks professors and students, searching desperately through the faculty and the alumni, but Jaskier is nowhere, and no one has ever heard of him, and - _no._

There’s no way Jaskier wouldn’t have gone to Oxenfurt. Geralt remembers the fond way Jaskier had spoken of Oxenfurt, his love for his alma mater, the way he would meet up with Geralt after a winter teaching at Oxenfurt with a loose, bright smile on his face, and Geralt knows that if Jaskier were here, in this strange world, there’s _no way_ he wouldn’t have gone to Oxenfurt, and if he isn’t here…

Geralt doesn’t want to accept it, doesn’t want to even _think_ about it, but as he goes through the list of students and alumni for the tenth time and Jaskier _still isn’t there_ , there’s a sinking dread in Geralt’s gut, and he _can’t_ accept it, he can’t believe it -

Jaskier can’t be _gone_.

But Geralt can’t find him anywhere. No one has heard of Jaskier, the master bard, nor has anyone heard of Julian Alfred Pankratz, and it’s like he doesn’t even exist, like he never even existed in this world where Geralt is human, and Geralt breaks.

He locks himself in his room for a week. Over a century of memories have suddenly been jammed into his mind, and it’s overwhelming, too much all at once, and Geralt knows that he lived a life full of pain and violence, but Jaskier - Jaskier had been the brightest spot among it all, and now he’s _gone_.

The empty space within him expands and grows, a roiling pit of darkness that leaves him aching, that leaves his eyes wet with tears and his heart heavy with grief. No one had ever meant as much to him as Jaskier had, and without Jaskier, Geralt is broken, a piece of him missing, and he feels wrong. He feels incomplete. 

He cries so easily now, he realises numbly. When he’d been a witcher, he’d been hardened by his training, desensitised by the Path, his mutagens making it harder for him to cry, and he’d cried only twice - when Jaskier had almost died in his arms, and when Jaskier had murmured his vows to him on the coast. 

Now, tears spill from his eyes ceaselessly, his frail, human body shaking as he mourns the loss of Jaskier, the only one who’d ever touched Geralt like he was worth loving, the only one who’d brightened up his life; his bard, his love. He cries and cries and cries, his body a hollow shell as he thinks about the prospect of a life without Jaskier by his side, without his smiles and laughter and song. 

When Geralt finally manages to pull himself together, his body utterly drained and unable to muster up any more tears, he vows to live in Jaskier’s memory. His heart squeezes painfully as he realises that, even without his memories, some part of him had missed Jaskier so viscerally that he’d taken up music, had taken up singing and the lute to keep some part of Jaskier with him.

It’s the only thing he has left of Jaskier. It’s the only way he can remember Jaskier, now that Jaskier is gone, now that Geralt has lost him. 

Gods, how will he even live without Jaskier? The years stretch out before him, a bleak future that’s empty and hollow, utterly devoid of light and warmth. He wants Jaskier, needs him, but Jaskier isn’t here. 

He’s gone. 

It’s with trembling hands that Geralt picks up his lute, Jaskier’s favourite instrument, the instrument that Jaskier had used to sing Geralt’s praises all over the Continent, the instrument that he’d used to play sweet, quiet songs over the campfire. 

Jaskier isn’t here to spread life and warmth and love with his music, but as Geralt clutches his lute to his chest, he vows to keep some part of Jaskier alive, vows to live in Jaskier’s memory.

He pushes himself even harder, vigorously training himself to play better, to sing better, and he shoots up far ahead of his class, his professors commending him for his dedication and his skill, and Geralt thinks with a pang in his heart that this had been Jaskier once upon a time. 

(Valdo is left in the dust, and Geralt feels a deep sense of satisfaction. Well, at least he now knows why he hates Valdo so much. And the apoplexy part makes sense now, but it only serves to make him sad.)

As music becomes a part of him the way fighting had been when he was a witcher, he misses Jaskier’s songs more and more, so much that every song he hears is hollow and lacking. He misses Jaskier’s voice, misses his singing, and Geralt would give _anything_ to hear that blasted _Toss a Coin_ , as annoying as it had been. But Jaskier isn’t here, so Geralt tries to do what he would’ve wanted and gets better and better at his craft, carving music into the very depths of his soul.

If Jaskier doesn’t exist here, at least there will always be a part of Jaskier with Geralt.

Once Geralt graduates from Oxenfurt, he sets out on the road as a travelling bard, the way Jaskier must have done in another world, in another lifetime. It’s an adjustment - his memories of being a witcher means that he constantly overestimates himself and his capacity to travel, forgetting that he’s _human_ and he’s not supposed to be able to walk for hours and hours without stopping. He forgets himself several times as he tries to cast Igni to start a fire, but he’s human now, with no magic within him.

It’s only now that Geralt manages to appreciate just how strong Jaskier had been to walk beside Geralt and Roach for hours each day, to be able to keep up with a witcher on the Path, and his heart aches and aches at the memory of Jaskier, of how he’d followed Geralt at eighteen and stayed by his side for the rest of his life with unwavering dedication. 

He thinks, slightly sardonically, that maybe he can find himself a witcher to follow, just as Jaskier had. Maybe he can find Eskel or Lambert or Vesemir and stick to them the way Jaskier had stuck to him, insisting on improving the reputation of witchers, following them on the Path. 

Yes, Geralt decides. That’s what he’ll do now - Jaskier had dedicated half his life to Geralt, to improving the reputation of witchers in the eyes of humans, to make people see Geralt the way Jaskier had always seen him. That had been his goal, his dream, and Geralt will carry on that dream. He won’t let Jaskier’s aspirations be forgotten.

So, in a fit of nostalgia, he decides to head to Posada. It would be fitting to start there.

After all, it had been where they’d first met. It had been where it all started. 

The trip to Posada is lonely. He passes by other travellers sometimes, but they give him no more than a quick nod and a greeting before moving on. The roads are endless and empty, with nature his only companion, and Jaskier’s absence is a visceral thing, cracking him open every time he turns to Jaskier to point out a pretty patch of flowers, only to be met with empty air; every time he expects to hear a witty quip but the world is silent; every time his ears strain to hear mindless chatter or the hum of song, only to be met with the chirping of birds and the whisper of the wind. 

Geralt tries to fill the silence with his own songs, but it’s not the same. There’s no bright laughter as Geralt’s voice stumbles over a wrong note, no warm tenor soaring through the air, and it’s awful, and horribly lonely, with Geralt’s voice the only human sound that can be heard for miles. 

The journey is long, and loneliness drags Geralt down with every step that he takes, with every day that passes, with every reminder that he’s all alone on the road, and Jaskier is - Jaskier is gone. 

When he finally arrives in Posada, nostalgia is a bittersweet taste on his tongue as he takes in the familiar buildings, the way the villagers rush around in hurried steps. He wanders the streets, exactly the same as his memories but so different. The colours are muted and the sounds are less chaotic with his dull human senses, and something bittersweet and wistful rises within him as he walks into a familiar tavern.

He’ll start his journey here.

At the sight of the familiar interior of the tavern, etched deep into his memories, Geralt’s knees almost buckle as he remembers sitting in the corner, drowning out his surroundings until a bard, bold and bright and young, had approached him without a hint of fear, curiosity burning in his blue eyes. It had been where their journey started, where Jaskier first started following Geralt, and the memory of their first meeting is as sweet as it is painful. 

As he walks up to perform, Geralt forces his gaze away from the corner where he’d once sat, knowing that the sight of the empty table, or the table filled with strangers, would be too painful to bear.

Setting down his pack, Geralt starts playing, working through several songs he’d learnt at Oxenfurt, his fingers flying over the lute on muscle memory as his mind drifts into memories, the fondness of the first time he’d met Jaskier, tainted with nostalgia and grief. His eyes wander through the tavern, taking in the familiar setting, the walls, the windows, the patrons, and then, _and then_ -

There’s a dark figure in the corner, sitting at the table where Geralt had once sat, and his heart speeds up, his fingers stilling on his lute and his voice dying in his throat when he makes out the black armour and twin swords of a witcher.

Can it -

No. It’s impossible. But…

It could be no more than a coincidence, a coincidence that plays cruelly with his heart, but Geralt _needs to know_. 

He slings his lute over his shoulder with shaking hands, making his way over to the corner as wisps of hope tentatively enter his heart.

Maybe, just _maybe_ -

The witcher’s head is bowed, a shock of white hair illuminated by the faint sunlight that filters through the windows, and Geralt wonders what Jaskier had felt, so long ago in another world. 

Perhaps destiny isn’t as cruel as Geralt had thought it was. Perhaps destiny is bringing them together once again, and Geralt knows that it’s dangerous to hope, knows that the disappointment could utterly crush him, but he’s desperate for even the smallest chance that Jaskier is here, grasping and clutching at the thin tendrils of hope. 

Please, please, _please -_

Heart hammering, Geralt leans against a pillar and blurts out the words etched deep into his memory.

“I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m sorry for the cliffhanger but at least we all know who the witcher is, don’t we? next chapter will feature a load of fluff and angst:)
> 
> this fic is part of a series, where i will post jaskier’s pov as another fic, and the project i’m working on will also be posted as part of this series, so if you like this, please subscribe to the series!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit shorter than my usual chapters, but it felt right to end here - enjoy the reunion!

The witcher looks up, and Geralt stares, transfixed, at the golden cat eyes, set in a face that he knows far too well. It’s a face he’d spent decades staring at, spent decades loving and cherishing. It’s a face that had always looked at Geralt with joy and love, filled with laughter and song as they’d travelled on the Path. 

Geralt had gazed at that face over a crackling campfire, across a creaking bed countless times over decades, drinking in those familiar features, so wondrously breathtaking every time. A face that Geralt had seen lax with bliss, bright with happiness and affection, contorted in righteous rage. Geralt had held that face between his hands, had caressed it with a brush of his fingers, a face that he'd kissed and worshipped - and loved with every beat of his heart. 

A face that Geralt had never thought he’d get to see again, a face that he’d mourned and cried over - and now, it’s right in front of him. 

Jaskier’s face - which Geralt holds closer to his heart than anything else, the memory crystallised in the depths of his mind - has harsher lines, a long scar running across it, and it’s framed by short silver hair, but that face - Geralt knows it better than his own, has loved it with every fibre of his being. 

It’s Jaskier’s face, changed but still so heart wrenchingly familiar, and it’s _Jaskier_ , Jaskier is _here_ , and unbridled hope ignites in Geralt’s chest. 

Maybe he won’t be so alone in this strange, unfamiliar universe after all. Maybe destiny has shown a sliver of kindness. 

Maybe he can have his heart, his joy, his love back. 

Jaskier - please, _please_ be Jaskier - blinks, eyes widening in surprise, and for a moment, a flash of fear runs through Geralt. What if he’s wrong, and this isn’t Jaskier? What if Jaskier doesn’t respond the way Geralt had, back in another life?

What if… what if he stares at Geralt without recognition, looking at him like he’s no more than a stranger?

If Jaskier doesn’t recognise him, doesn’t remember him, Geralt thinks that he’ll break, the fragile thread of hope shattering and the broken pieces piercing into his grieving heart. 

He’d mourned Jaskier, had grieved him. Geralt had thought him _gone_ , and there’s an ache within him, carving out a painful, agonising hole in his chest, in his heart, the loss of Jaskier rendering him hollow. He would do _anything_ to fill that ache, to have Jaskier _back_ , but -

He can’t do it - to have Jaskier’s face before him again, only for the world to be cruel, so painfully cruel, and tear him away from Geralt once again - to have destiny dangle this hallucination, this illusion, this miracle of Jaskier before him, only to rip it away… 

It would be cruel. Unspeakably cruel. But the world - it has never been kind to Geralt, and he has learned not to hope, because hope is a fickle thing - more often than not, holding out hope ends in misery and devastation. 

And yet, Geralt can’t help but _hope_ , because if there’s any chance that Jaskier is here, any chance that he isn’t dead or gone, and Geralt can be by his side, if there’s _any chance at all_ , Geralt will grasp at it with pleading fingers, begging for that empty void within him to be filled with warmth and life and love once again, longing for Jaskier to once again be with him, for them to be together. 

_Please, please, please._

There’s a long pause, during which Geralt’s heart thumps loudly in his ears, body tensing in dread and hope and trepidation and anticipation and a fervent plea to destiny, until finally, _finally_ , Jaskier rasps, “I’m here to drink alone.”

It’s impossible, utterly miraculous, but - those words had once been Geralt’s, and now Jaskier is saying them back to him, an echo of their first meeting. 

_I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood._

_I’m here to drink alone._

It’s a confirmation that this isn’t a hallucination, isn’t a cruel trick of destiny to toy with the broken pieces of Geralt’s heart, but this - this is _real._

Jaskier is _here_. Jaskier remembers him, remembers their life together, and a wave of happiness crushes years of mourning and and grief and loneliness as Geralt smiles, unable to help himself, as he slides into the seat opposite Jaskier. 

Tears brim at the corners of his eyes. Gods, Jaskier is truly here with him, after Geralt had thought him dead and gone. He’s a witcher, and Geralt doesn’t want to think about the implications of that, doesn’t want to think about the Trials, about how, judging by his silver hair, Jaskier must have received extra mutations the way Geralt had. He doesn’t linger on those thoughts, because what matters is that Jaskier is here with him. 

He can’t take his eyes off Jaskier, fearful that if he does, Jaskier might dissipate, and Geralt would be crushed at losing him once again. He _can’t_ lose Jaskier. 

Tracing his eyes over Jaskier’s face, over unfamiliar and familiar features, Geralt soaks in the bright golden eyes and the silver hair, cropped close at the sides and longer up top, loose strands falling over his face. Gods, that face - it throws Geralt’s memories back into vivid clarity, and Geralt lets his gaze roam desperately over it, taking in everything. 

At the sight of the scar that crosses Jaskier’s face, Geralt’s heart pangs, and he wonders what Jaskier must have gone through without Geralt by his side, what he must have experienced, hurt and alone. Geralt knows far too well what the life of a witcher is like, full of pain and loneliness and hatred, and for Jaskier to have gone through it all - the thought is unbearable, and Geralt pushes it away, turning his attention back to the utter miracle before him. 

He hadn’t thought he’d ever get to see Jaskier again, but now Jaskier is _right here_ , and Geralt drinks him in greedily, commits his every feature to memory - he’s the most beautiful thing that Geralt has ever seen, and now that Geralt has him back, something within him slots back into place, filling him with bright, sweet warmth.

“I thought - I thought you were _dead_ ,” Geralt chokes out, his voice barely a whisper, still not quite able to believe the miracle before him. 

Jaskier smiles, a sad smile that softens his face, and he reaches out to clutch Geralt’s hand. Jaskier’s hand is rough from the grips of his swords, but it’s warm and solid and real, grounding Geralt in the darkness of this dingy tavern. 

He can touch Jaskier. He can see Jaskier, can hear him, and _please let this be real. Please don’t be a dream._

Geralt tangles his fingers with Jaskier’s, unwilling to let him go, and Jaskier murmurs, “I thought you were dead too.” His voice is low and raspy, running with an undercurrent of grief. “For so long.”

How old is Jaskier now? There’s a tiredness in his eyes, a tiredness that lingers in his face that speaks of the years he’s lived, far longer than his youthful face suggests, and Geralt tightens his grip on Jaskier’s hand, heart breaking as he realises just how long Jaskier must have thought him dead. 

A witcher’s life is very, very long. 

But Jaskier had lived through it, trudged through the long, painful years until he’d reached Posada. Until he’d entered this dingy, familiar tavern. 

Until a bard had come up to him and uttered those familiar first words. 

“I can’t believe you’re _here_ ,” Geralt whispers, gaze fixed on Jaskier. He can’t look away, afraid that if he does, Jaskier might disappear, and he’ll be left broken. “This is… you’re _here_.”

“I’m… you’re…” Jaskier’s amber eyes are wide, and he shakes his head, a flash of pain crossing his expression. “I can’t - gods, this is…” There’s a frenzied desperation in the way his eyes roam Geralt’s face, a mixture of desperation and hope that Geralt knows is reflected in his own. “ _How?_ ”

Shaking his head, Geralt murmurs, “I have no idea. I wish I knew.” 

How did they even manage to end up here, Geralt a bard and Jaskier a witcher, meeting for the first time once again in Posada? What had the mirror done?

But...

“We’re here now,” Geralt says, voice low as he traces circles on Jaskier’s palm. “We’re here now, together, and that’s what matters.”

“We’re here,” Jaskier echoes, eyes flitting over Geralt, wonder and disbelief colouring his voice. “ _You’re_ here.”

Geralt takes Jaskier’s other hand and holds on tight, marvelling at this unbelievable miracle, in awe that they’ve found each other again. “I’m here,” he confirms. “And I’m not leaving you. I will _not_ leave you.”

 _Please don’t take him away from me_ , Geralt prays to any deity out there who deigns to listen. _Please let us stay together._

“How is this possible?” Jaskier is breathing heavily, eyes fixed on Geralt with fearful desperation. “I want to believe that this is real, that you’re _here_ , but what if - what if this isn’t real? I don’t think I can -”

Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s hands, cutting him off, his heart breaking at the agonised disbelief in Jaskier’s words. “I’m real, Jaskier,” he breathes out, watching as the frenzy in Jaskier’s eyes softens to something sweeter at the sound of his name. Jaskier had once told him that no one else had ever said his name like Geralt did, like it was worth his time saying, like a gentle exhalation of love, and Geralt repeats it, taking his time to savour the beloved sound and shape of Jaskier’s name in his mouth. “Jaskier. _Jaskier_. I’m here.”

Geralt watches as a heavy breath shudders out of Jaskier, eyes fluttering shut, but not before Geralt sees the shine of tears, and his heart hurts for them both. 

Why is destiny so cruel to them? Yes, they’re here now, together, but why had destiny seen fit to tear them apart, making them think the other dead? Why had Jaskier been made to go through the Trials and through brutal training, through decades and decades of grief and loneliness? 

“I can’t lose you,” Jaskier says, piercing eyes boring into Geralt, a plea in his voice. “Not again.”

“You won’t,” Geralt vows. He’ll stay by Jaskier’s side no matter what. He’ll cling to Jaskier and never let him go. “I can’t lose you either.”

“We promised to stay together forever.” Jaskier’s eyes go distant, and Geralt wonders if he’s remembering the same moment - a sunny day on the coast, surrounded by their loved ones, rings glimmering on their hands as waves lapped at the shore, a sweet kiss sealing an eternal promise. “We vowed to never leave each other’s side, and we - and we -”

Jaskier cuts himself off, his grip on Geralt’s hand suddenly becoming bruising. “I can’t _bear_ to live without you,” Jaskier grinds out. “Those years… they were awful without you by my side. I was so - so empty, so _lonely_. I couldn’t - you were… I can’t do that again. If this is real -”

“It’s real.”

“- I won’t let you go ever again,” Jaskier continues, and Geralt grips Jaskier’s hand just as tightly, heart aching and warm all at once. 

“I thought I knew loneliness.” Before he’d met Jaskier, he’d been alone on the Path. He’d been lonely, but it was nothing compared to what he’d felt when he’d regained his memories to find Jaskier gone. “Those years without you… _gods_.”

Squeezing Geralt’s hand, Jaskier whispers, “I know, dear heart. I know.”

“I’ll stay by your side,” Geralt breathes. “Always.” 

It’s a promise, one that Geralt knows he won’t ever break, not if he can help it. 

Jaskier’s eyes return to him, and Geralt holds his gaze, grounding himself in reality, where they’re both here, where they’re together - because this is _real_ , and Geralt refuses to lose Jaskier again. 

For a moment, they’re suspended in time, just the two of them, together once again. Then Jaskier’s face morphs into a more playful smile, and the sadness building between them dissipates. 

“You know,” he purrs, leaning forward with a playful glint in his luminous eyes, a glint that Geralt knows far too well, a glint that promises wonderful things ahead. “I didn’t think that you’d have red hair and green eyes.”

Geralt raises a hand to touch his hair self consciously, his fingers getting tangled in the unruly curls. “Oh?”

This isn’t what he’d looked like as a witcher, that’s for sure. Shoulders curling in slightly, Geralt remembers the way Jaskier had waxed poetic about the White Wolf, about his gleaming silver hair and his shining golden eyes, about his strength and heroics - and wonders if Jaskier finds him underwhelming now. He’s frail and human, with nothing in his appearance containing the glory and majesty that Jaskier had viewed his previous features with, and Geralt knows that Jaskier isn’t shallow, knows that Jaskier loves him - but as he pulls his hand free of his curls, he wonders if he’ll ever live up to the way Jaskier used to see him. 

“It’s good.” Jaskier’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and Geralt blinks at him. Jaskier looks at him like he always has, eyes filled with love and fondness and wonder, and the sliver of insecurity fades away. “You look wonderful, sweetheart, and you’re very, very cute.”

And _fuck_ , even as a witcher, Jaskier’s words still make Geralt _weak_. Heat blooms in his cheeks and he ducks his head, hoping to hide his face from Jaskier’s gaze, knowing that he’s turned an embarrassing shade of pink. 

Geralt bites his lip. “You, um.” He barely manages to keep himself from squeaking, and his fingers twitch “You. Uh.”

Jaskier can’t just - _compliment_ him like that. Well, Jaskier had always complimented him, but back when Geralt had been a witcher, he hadn’t blushed as easily. Now, he blushes at the smallest things, his face turning as red as his hair, and when Jaskier looks at him with that glint in his eyes and a playful tilt to his mouth as he compliments Geralt, well, how can he _not_ blush?

“Your eyes are gorgeous,” Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt swallows. “I love the way your hair looks, and gods, your freckles.” His eyes trace over Geralt’s face slowly. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

His voice is filled with affection and appreciation, and Geralt squeaks again at the compliments, prompting a playful smirk from Jaskier that gives Geralt a quick glimpse of sharp canines. 

Desperate to change the topic, Geralt stutters, “It suits you.” 

He peeks up at Jaskier, meeting soft golden eyes, and there’s no doubt that this is Jaskier, because only one person has ever looked at Geralt that way, with so much affection and fondness and love mixed into one look. “The hair and the eyes, I mean.”

And it does. As much as Geralt hates to think about the pain Jaskier must have gone through, the silver hair and golden eyes suit Jaskier, as do the swords on his back and the black armour, subtly embroidered with spots of colour. Even the scar that runs across his face suits him, adding to the dangerous beauty of his face rather than detracting from it. 

Jaskier looks good as a witcher, and Geralt itches to refamiliarise himself with Jaskier’s body, to relearn the curves and edges that he knows as well as his own, to explore the new parts of him, the parts forged and hardened by years of witcher training and scarred by the monsters on the Path. Jaskier’s appearance shows just how deadly he is, but his hands are warm and gentle where they touch Geralt’s, and his gaze drips with fondness and tenderness for Geralt, and Geralt alone. 

He’s so beautiful like this, and Geralt is utterly entranced. 

Doubt flickers across Jaskier’s eyes, and Geralt hurts for him, knowing exactly what he’s feeling - after all, Geralt had felt the same when Jaskier first started complimenting him a lifetime ago. He’d been insecure, unable to believe in Jaskier’s words, not after decades and decades of people rejecting him for his appearance, but Jaskier had accepted him, and somehow seen beauty in him, and now, Geralt vows to do the same for Jaskier.

He can’t change the horrible decades that Jaskier must have gone through, but he can make it better. He will show Jaskier that he’s accepted, that he’s loved, the way Jaskier had once done for him. 

Pulling one hand from Jaskier’s grip, Geralt traces it over Jaskier’s cheekbones, lingering on the scar that scores a long, curved line from Jaskier’s brow to his chin, and Jaskier glances at him with a hint of nervousness in his golden gaze. Geralt marvels at the gorgeous amber of his eyes - when he’d seen those very same eyes in the mirror, he’d recoiled in disgust, hating the very sight of his own eyes, but seeing them in Jaskier now… it ignites a flare of appreciation within him, makes him want to fall into the bright depths. 

He never thought he’d find the eyes of a witcher beautiful. 

Wonderingly, Geralt ghosts his hand over the side of Jaskier’s head, the short hairs pricking at his fingers, and slides his hand up to brush through the long silver strands at the top, and Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut as he sways slightly into Geralt’s touch, a soft sigh escaping his mouth. Jaskier’s pale hair is soft and silky underneath Geralt’s hands, and if he closes his eyes, it would feel the same as it does in Geralt’s memories, which are now becoming more vivid and vibrant in Jaskier’s presence.

“Y - you, I think,” Geralt swallows, moving his hand back down to cup Jaskier’s cheek. “You’re. Um.”

The corner of Jaskier’s mouth quirks up slightly, even as uncertainty lurks in his eyes. “I thought bards were supposed to be eloquent.”

“Shut up, I’m plenty eloquent,” Geralt grumbles. It’s just - Jaskier’s presence makes his mind go hazy and bright and soft as it always does around Jaskier, and even with his newfound eloquence as a bard, Jaskier still manages to make the words fly from his mind.

“Sure.” At that, Geralt wrinkles his nose at Jaskier, who huffs a low, husky laugh. “You’re adorable.”

“Am _not_.” Geralt is still blushing, he’s aware, and Jaskier is looking at him so _fondly_ that Geralt almost forgets his original intention until he feels the tenseness of Jaskier’s jaw under his palm.

Jaskier must still be feeling unsure, and the thought of Jaskier being uncertain of himself is what drives Geralt to blurt out, “You’re beautiful.”

He snaps his mouth shut, forcing himself to meet Jaskier’s gaze even as heat floods his cheeks once again. Jaskier blinks at him, slow and almost cat-like, mouth falling open ever so slightly. 

Slowly, Jaskier reaches up to cover Geralt’s hand on his cheek, his warm palm engulfing Geralt’s hand, and he closes his eyes for a brief moment.

When Jaskier opens his eyes again, the doubt in them melts to sweet, soft affection that makes Geralt’s breath catch in his throat, and he squeezes Geralt’s hand. “Oh, Geralt,” he whispers, and Geralt almost sobs at the sound of his name from Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier says _Geralt_ likes the word means the world to him, like there’s nothing he cherishes more, and Geralt is so damn glad that he gets to hear it again. “Gods, I missed you.”

His voice is soft, gentle, and it brings decades of fond memories to the forefront of Geralt’s mind, memories of Jaskier’s lilting and soothing voice washing over him as he babbles on, memories of Jaskier murmuring sweet nothings into his ear, memories of Jaskier whispering, soft and tender, _I love you_.

And Geralt can’t help the smile that spreads across his face at those memories, at how Jaskier is _here_ , with Geralt, _here_ , and alive. 

“I missed you too,” he replies, and they’re silent for a moment, surrounded by the bustle and the hubbub of the tavern, wrapped up in their own world.

Jaskier is here. He isn’t dead, and Geralt gets to have him. They get to be together once again, they get to be with each other in this lifetime, and Geralt clings tighter to Jaskier, unwilling to be separated from him again. 

They’ve found each other, and Geralt will never, ever let Jaskier go again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i gave jaskier an undercut. yes geralt blushes, he's very cute. up next: a proper reunion kiss!
> 
> also, in the comments last chapter, some of you wondered whether jaskier remembers geralt or not - clearly he does, but i'm also writing a side piece where he doesn't:) for the ANGST (i wanted to straight out change it but by that point i'd already written the reunion and a bit of what happens after so,,)
> 
> if you like this, keep an eye on the series - i’ll be posting another fic as part of a [collaboration project](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1895545), where canon (show) jaskier lands in this universe and meets the reversed versions of himself and geralt. it’ll be angsty but it will also feature jaskier and bard geralt playing a duet, jaskier being baffled at himself being a witcher and geralt being human

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr [@jaskicr](https://jaskicr.tumblr.com/) and scream at me about witcher jaskier!


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